


A Cup of Tea

by fierysuzaku



Series: A Toast to Good Company [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Childhood Memories, M/M, Pep Talk, Romance, Sleepy Cuddles, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierysuzaku/pseuds/fierysuzaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France laments England's love for tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cup of Tea

He glares at the kettle with a strange mixture of avid fascination and unmatched frustration. One would think that after _centuries_ of life and experience, he can manage to make a decent pot of tea. Strike that, he doesn’t need decent, he needs perfection.

Why?

Because as much as he doesn’t care to admit, he quite likes it when a certain grump of a man gives off that tiny aura of satisfaction that makes his features soften and his lips curl up just so. And apparently, much to his constant aggravation, nothing seems to give him that kind of relaxed satisfaction aside from that sordid serving of leaf water he commonly calls as tea.

Which is why he is here, in Canada of all places because as much as it was easier to ask around in Europe. It will be a very cold day in Hell if he asks Portugal for help. It is not that he _doesn’t_ like the Iberian nation, in fact he finds him charming and quite a nice fellow to talk to. Except.

**_Except._ **

Anything that pertains to a certain island nation with bushy eyebrows because those two are like two peas in a pod sometimes and they have this uncanny way of communication that on occasion tends to irk France because, England is supposed to be _his_.

Not in the possessive sense of ‘only I can do and know these things’, but more on the, ‘I know him better so fuck off’, kind of way that doesn’t really bother him much except on certain instances when the damn Portuguese offers him some tea time.

And he _knows_ , it shouldn’t bother him. It was purely friendship, sure there were _some_ instances _centuries_ ago when it could have been more but that was so long ago and this is now.

He sighs, only to notice in sheer dismay that he over-boiled the water.

_Merde._

He swears, bites his lips and threads his fingers through his ponytail wondering why he even bothers.

 _I should just learn to accept it_ , he thought as he flops down onto a nearby chair after turning the stove off. He visibly winces when he notices that time. He was trying to brew tea for hours with a very tolerant and kind Canadian as his taste tester.

He takes note to give Canada something nice after this and resumes his internal moping.

_Damn it!_

He can cook, bake and pretty much anything that is in correlation to cooking but brew tea? The heavens decided to be ironic with that little tidbit.

“You all right?”

He starts, shoulders stiff as he turns towards the direction of the voice.

“I’m fine, _mon petit_. Just a bit frustrated,” he admits, casting a long look at the cooling kettle that seems to mock him with each failed attempt.

“You’re just thinking too much about it,” Canada assures in an effort to keep his dwindling self-esteem on the fine art of tea brewing from falling into lovely little pieces.

“I just don’t get it, _Mathieu_. Everything about cooking comes easily as breathing. I can whip up a decent dish on first try. I can bake the perfect cake with the icing sweetened just right but for the life of me, I cannot seem to be able to brew tea of all things,” he says with exasperation, as he watched the young nation sigh.

“You know he won’t leave you because you can’t brew tea right?”

The question makes him pause, was he worried?

“No. Of course not, it’s just tea. Not the make-or-break moment of our relationship.  I know that. It’s just…” he sighs, brows in a furrow as he meets the curious violet gaze.

“Well, I don’t know why you chose me of all people. I mean, wouldn’t it be better to ask India since he and Britain traded with the stuff. Or Portugal can – ”

“It’s okay,” he cuts him off, not too sharp but enough to make a few sparks of understanding dawn within those violet depths, “ you’ve been a lovely teacher _mon petit_ , I’m just a very bad student,” he adds in jeeringly, hoping Canada would just ignore the tiny white elephant at the corner of the room.

“Oh, I don’t know about that…”

“ _Non_ , it’s true. You should put yourself down like that, _mon petit_ ,” he assures, giving the mop of soft blond locks a nice pat.

“Neither should you. So you can’t brew tea the way England likes it. Big deal!”

“I know,” he agrees, he has been telling himself that for so long, “it’s just so frustrating. But nevertheless you are right. I shouldn’t be beating myself up for such petty things.”

“Good. Now, you’ve done a lot today and you really need some shuteye. Do want something a drink? To calm the nerves before bed,” _Mathieu_ offers with a small smile. 

“That would be lovely, but hold the tea,” he says, making the other chuckle and answer.

“Don’t worry, I have just the thing.”

“Wine?” he ventures.

“No. Better.”

“Better than wine. It’s not maple syrup is it?”

“Partly… but I’m sure you’ll like it. Go relax and prepare for bed while I make it,” he replies as he takes over the kitchen.

France nods in ascent as he made his way to the guest room. After a quick shower, he was all snuggled in the warmth of thick heavy comforters, perfect for the chilly weather. He hears a couple of soft knocks and calls out for Canada to enter.

The young nation comes in holding a steaming mug and some biscuits.

“Here, try some,” he offers while the Frenchman examines the contents of the much.

“Milk?”

“Milk and maple syrup actually. I have it after feeling stressed or upset. Really helps,” he explains.

“It does. But I use honey on mine. I used to make some for England when we were young. It helped calm him down and rest after a day of running through the forests or fighting with his brothers,” he recalls, turning nostalgic as the image of a wild child of eyes green as the forests of his land runs through his thoughts only to be cut short by the Canadian’s enlightened comment.

“So that’s where it came from.”

“Excuse me?”

“The drink,” Canada explains gesturing to the drink nestled between his hands.  “England makes it for us, says that whenever we feel too upset to sleep. He always says, ‘a cup of magic will always help’,” he adds in, surprising France.

“M-Magic?”

“Well, not _real_ magic. It’s just something he used to say to make it seem extra special,” Canada says with a soft chuckle, his eyes becoming soft as warm memories of childhood come.

“O-Oh.”

A stutter and a blush.

_He still remembers?_

“Are you okay? You look a bit flustered,” Canada notes, and sometimes France wishes the nation would be as dense as his brother.

_He is so sharp, it’s frightening at times._

“No, no. I’m fine. I just didn’t expect him to…” he trails off, a small smile curls upon his lips without his knowing.

“To remember the recipe?” Canada ventures.

 _It is a recipe? A mixture of warm milk and a small dollop of honey. One can’t really call it a recipe can they?_ He briefly pauses for thought before answering.

“Yes, to be honest, I thought he had forgotten about it.”

“Really? He used to have a habit of making us all a cup before bedtime, right after the stories.”

Then, all the little bits and pieces start to make sense. The bottles of milk that seems to be too much just simply for tea. An unwashed mug sitting on the sink lacking the distinctive discoloration of tea after a rather stressful day. The constant supply of honey. 

“I-I see. Thank you, Mathieu,” he says as he hands out the now empty mug to his host.

“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Francis.”

He leaves and Francis sleeps, dreaming of memories, of colors of gold and green mixing and matching in a strange menagerie of emotions and fuzzy characters.

_“What’s in this thing?” The green eyed rabbit asks the golden frog._

_The frog smiles and answers, “magic.”_

He goes home the next day, and was welcomed by an irate Englishman standing on the rainy airport entrance with a black umbrella.

“You shouldn’t have,” he purrs and the other predictable scoffs.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have.”

_But he did so anyways._

“I missed you, mon lapin,” he whispers, sneaking in a soft kiss to the cheek.

“I missed you too, Frog,” Arthur whispers back in response, with a telltale dash of pink upon his pale cheeks.

They arrive late, after a case of baggage problems and traffic with a pace that can match a horse drawn carriage, they can finally ease themselves into the cozy warmth of Arthur’s home.

“It’s good to be home,” he sighs, pausing to take in the fatigue and heaviness cast against his lover’s features.

“It has been a long day, _mon lapin_. You should rest,” he says as he sets his bags on the floor.

“That should be my line… what were you doing at Canada’s house anyways,” Arthur retorts, lacking the usual bite and ire denoting just how tiring his day was.  

“Oh, just catching up on certain things. A bit of bonding…” he trails off.

“Is that so…” his green eyes narrow in suspicion.

“ _Oui._ Now, we should both call it a night. You go ahead, there’s something I need to do first,” he declares as he takes his bags which England immediately took away from him.

“You can unpack tomorrow.”

“Fine, I’m just going to fix us a drink for the night. So go on right up, and I’ll follow.”

“Fine,” England relents as he returns the bags to the floor and makes his way up to the bedroom.

Moments later, he reappears in their bedroom with two mugs of warm honeyed milk.

“A cup of magic, _mon coeur_?” he asks, as he offers up the mug to a very surprised England. The surprise eventually morphs and turns into sputtering and blushing. To be honest, he half expects England to douse him with said ‘cup of magic’ as a defensive reflex.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes the mug and curls up against the blankets just so, while he silently finishes the drink with a small smile curling upon his lips.

Once done, France moves the cups towards the bedside table before burrowing within the blankets for more warmth. He was already half-asleep when he felt a pair of petal soft lips kiss his nape and whisper, “Thanks, Frog.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would be lovely.


End file.
